


china vase

by joisattempting



Series: look over there it's a wild falsettos college au [2]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Angst, Buckle up folks, F/M, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, I love her, I'm so sorry, Platonic Relationships, because this is some, because trindel isn't a thing yet shhhh, but really when is she not, fucking supportive trina, green tea is also featuring, help me what is this, mendel is Not Ok, mendel's dad is an unaccepting bitch, so just enjoy some sweet sweet flangst, trina is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 03:56:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21092996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisattempting/pseuds/joisattempting
Summary: mendel seeks solace.





	china vase

**Author's Note:**

> wow two fics in and the angst train is already leaving the station  
huge huge thank you to @davesturntables for proofreading!! ily!!
> 
> again, as a cis person, i'm not fully sure how to write trans characters. if anything does offend, please please let me know!
> 
> tw: mentions of misgendering, mentions of unacceptance, mentioned slurring (no slurs are actually used), implied deadnaming (the name isn't mentioned)
> 
> i'm so so sorry

The clock on the wall ticked loudly through the night, painfully reminding Mendel that it was two in the fucking morning. His lip quivered, taunting him, threatening to let out a sob. The man was slumped over at his desk, his vision blurred as he tried to read his unnecessarily-large textbook. Terms and definitions and diagrams intertwined together, encircling his throbbing head. The ticking still nagged him, like a song that wouldn’t leave your mind. But he hadn’t got his homework wet. He was okay. Besides, the worksheets were almost finished. 

Quite frankly, Mendel wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Not everyone was accepting of the LGBT community, he should know that. So why did his father’s slurring and cursing and screaming still terrify him? Something about disregarding and going against the Torah and Judaism itself. He didn’t understand. The Weisenbachfelds had never been overly religious, only occasionally going to temple, then proceeding to embarrass themselves when they stumbled over the prayers. It was only when his naive, eighteen-year-old self had shouted out that the older man was only using religion as an excuse, that he’d landed himself in deep trouble. He’d started packing for college the very same day. 

Planning his coming out was done carefully. In the end he decided to put it off until the end of summer vacation of his senior year of high school, so that he could use college as an escape route if things went south. Enlisting the help of Charlotte, he drove to campus early the next day. On occasion he wondered if he should have attempted to tie the frayed, loose end with his father before leaving, but the thought was quickly shaken from his mind. Mendel didn’t want to know the man anymore. Not after that summer. For the first few weeks of freshman year, he was silent, lurking at the very back of lecture halls and disappearing at lunch. He’d never been “okay” since then, per se, but the feelings fluctuated. Some days he could pay attention in class. Volunteer and contribute to discussions. Do more than give monosyllabic answers when spoken to by his friends. Other days he’d run late, maybe stay in his dorm all day. He’d cry. He did that a lot. He wouldn’t eat all day. Just sit on his bed and wail, ignoring the piling coursework on his desk and the rumblings in his stomach. Sitting and not thinking. Crying, but not thinking. Thinking made it worse. 

But he couldn’t keep holding it in. He was a china vase. Broken, but held hastily together by hot glue. One slip off the edge could shatter it again, into an even larger number of miniscule pieces. A china vase, that, despite the cracks down its middle and the misshapen handle, didn’t look half bad. Sometimes, it wouldn’t even come across as damaged. It could stay on the shelf forever, and not a thing would be suspected. A perfectly acceptable china vase. That is, until someone took a closer look. 

Mendel didn’t know how he ended up outside Trina’s apartment just across the hall. 

It was two AM, for God’s sake. He knew she was asleep. He knew how stressed she was, and the struggles of being an English major. He knew he shouldn’t knock on the door with the peeling red paint. The one with two grimy brass numbers and one letter that just barely clung to its nail. 31A. Trina Aronowitz. 

Why did he do it anyway? 

“‘Del?” a soft voice called out, and Mendel’s closest friend came into view. She wore what she liked to call pajamas - tonight it was an oversized pink t-shirt and faded, yellow cotton shorts. Copper hair was piled into a somewhat decent-looking messy bun, bangs a mess on her face and the occasional stray wisp of hair tumbling down. Her expression was one of mild confusion, but mostly fatigue. Mendel felt a pang of guilt bloom in his chest. “Why aren’t you asleep?” 

“Homework,” he managed to stammer, rubbing his arm awkwardly. He felt a confession bubbling up his throat, on the verge of spilling out like bile. Mendel swallowed, as though trying to shove the words back down, to the suppressed area in the bottommost pit of his stomach where they belonged. It hasn’t been long before the soda bottle finally burst open, and its contents came spewing out like a geyser. Before the bottle used to store his feelings finally exploded, finally smashed into smithereens. Before the china vase was tipped over the edge again. 

He collapsed into her arms, like his china vase onto the ground. His head was in her shirt, ugly sobs escaping his lips. Hot, salty tears dripped onto her shirt. “He...”

“Shhh,” Trina silenced him, stroking his soft black curls. Neither man nor lady spoke. It didn’t take words for her to understand - three weeks over at the Weisenbachfeld residence in North Bergen had more than satisfied her silent curiosity. Nothing had actually happened, but the tension between father and son, the incorrect pronouns, the one and only time he’d addressed him using the name that Trina had tried to help Mendel bury deep under the ground and forget about for as long as he lived, told her everything she needed to know. And then, there was the time he’d cried. Up in his childhood bedroom, knees drawn up to his chest, head resting on his kneecaps. Trina remembered sitting by him. Not touching him, but speaking and coaxing softly, letting him know she was there, and she thought he was wonderful no matter what. Eventually, his mother and two younger sisters followed suit. They’d all gone to bed after he’d calmed down. 

Silently, Trina sat beside him, rubbing circles into his back as he drank the green tea she’d made him. He’d always liked green tea, she remembered. Apparently it was an effective stress-reliever, or something. For a fleeting moment she’d considered telling him a secret, too. A dark one that she’d been harbouring for some time now. She knew she’d have to open her mouth about it at some point, but not now. Not when her best friend had just been verbally abused. Her issue seemed miniscule when stacked up against the rocking, whimpering mess on her bed, teetering like a china plate on the edge of a shelf. Whose ebony ringlets fell flat and disconsolate over dead umber eyes. His hoodie clung to his wiry frame with sweat. Well, only slightly wiry. A tiny hint of a stomach poked out a bit, something that had come of the redistribution of fat during his transition. He’d come to accept it, like he had most things. His lip quivered as he inhaled, in a futile attempt to steady his breathing.

They stayed that way for twenty minutes. Mendel sighed and coughed and pushed back his hair. Trina waited, rubbed his back, offered her hand. She mustered up a proud smile when he took up her offer. 

“‘Del?” she mumbled quietly, as if she was scared to break the prolonged silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Mendel’s body tensed, then relaxed. Then tensed again. Inside him was a cauldron, a melting pot full to the brim of stirring, white-hot, burning emotions. It was difficult to find the right one. He settled on a shrug. Strange. Of all the things he was feeling, Mendel had never thought indifference would be one. He let the question hang and sway in the awkward air, remaining quiet for longer. When his palms finally stopped sweating and his breathing was regular, Mendel spoke. “Called me,” 

“He called you?” Trina echoed.

The man nodded, more hair falling onto his sweaty forehead. “Used wrong pronouns,”

Nothing new. Trina found it heartbreaking and sick that this information was nothing new. She remembered when they’d arrived at his house two summers ago. She’d flinched when the man didn’t care to address his son properly. A gasp had to be held back when Trina realised that Mendel remained unfazed. At dinner, she held his hand under the table. Gave it a reassuring squeeze. She was there. She’d always be. “Anything else?” Trina asked quietly. “Was it bad?”

He said it. Dug the name out from its grave. Uttering it almost made him cry again. Trina had to blink back her own tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “Anything I can do?”

“Don’t be,” Mendel replied, offering her the tiniest of smiles despite himself. The tide had gone out. The waves had stopped crashing, the seas weren’t so rough anymore. She was okay. He was going to be okay. Strength was an important factor in Mendel’s life. “Thank you,”

And they hugged again.

The china vase was on the shelf again. How it got there, only one knew. It wouldn’t be fully whole again, but at least it was somewhat complete. However, neither the china vase, nor the kind soul who’d glued it back together knew how grateful the former was to not be in pieces as of yet.


End file.
